My name is Aden Cisneros, and I'm a freshman at Creighton studying neuroscience on a pre-med track. My path here has been shaped by a need for self-reliance and a focus on practical, achievable goals. It’s a way of thinking that developed out of necessity. A significant challenge for me has always been the reality of my family's financial situation. I grew up in a single-parent, low-income household where there was no safety net for unexpected expenses. This meant that while many of my peers could focus entirely on their studies or extracurriculars, I've always had to balance my academic workload with part-time jobs to help make ends meet. Though I was always grateful for my mother's incredible hard work, the environment I grew up in demanded a constant balancing act that requires a high level of discipline and organization. It means making a hard choice between an extra study session for a chemistry exam or picking up another shift to cover the cost of textbooks. This past year, that challenge became more acute. The transition to university brought new costs and pressures, and this happened to coincide with a difficult personal period where I was dealing with my own mental health struggles, including bouts of depression. I found myself facing existential crises at the ripe old age of 18, realizing the very simple and sometimes harsh realities of life. This interfered with my interpersonal relationships; I saw more futility in things than I should have let on, which made connecting with others difficult. For someone who has always relied on a clear, logical framework to navigate the world, having my own internal state feel so unpredictable was profoundly unsettling. The combination of financial stress and internal turmoil was overwhelming at times. There wasn't a single moment of "overcoming" it; that's not how it works. It has been an ongoing process of applying a methodical approach to my own life. I broke the problem down into manageable parts. I refined my time management system to protect my study hours while still working my job. Seeking out on-campus mental health resources was a difficult but necessary step, as my instinct is to solve problems independently. And I found a simple but effective way to clear my head by just riding my bike around campus, a quiet activity that allowed for time to think. This whole experience, while difficult, has given me a new and important perspective on my career goals. My interest in the brain was already there, but now it's more personal. It’s one thing to learn about depression as a clinical diagnosis in a textbook; it's another to understand the physical weight of it, the way it can cloud your thinking and sap your motivation. I now have a much clearer understanding of the connection between our neurological state and our emotional well-being because I've had to navigate it myself. This will make me a better doctor. When I see a patient’s chart in the future and it lists "depression" or "anxiety" as a comorbidity, I won't see it as just a clinical label. I'll have a more grounded understanding of how that state can affect their ability to heal, to follow a complex treatment plan, or even to accurately describe their own symptoms. My own struggles will allow me to connect with their situation with a level of empathy that can only come from direct experience. My goal is still neurosurgery, but my reasons are now deeper. It’s a career where I can use my own difficult experiences to better understand and, I hope, more effectively help others. I hope I'm not out of my mind with this notion. We could all approach things with a clear head sometimes.

To me, being an "up-stander" isn’t about making a big speech or a grand gesture. It’s about the smaller, consistent choices you make when you see a problem. It’s about noticing when a system isn't working for everyone and then doing something practical to try and fix it. My drive to do this comes from a pretty straightforward place: I've always been the kind of person who tries to understand how things work, and that includes the way people interact in a group. A clear example for me was my time as swim team captain. The informal "system" on the team was that most of the attention went to the fastest swimmers. It wasn't intentional, but it meant that a lot of the newer or less experienced members were often left on their own. I saw that this was not only discouraging for them, but it was also just an inefficient way to build a strong team. I used my position to stand up for a different approach. I started spending more of my time during practice working with the struggling swimmers, helping them with their technique, and I made it a point to publicly acknowledge individual improvements, not just race wins. It was a small shift, but it changed the team's culture. It built a community where everyone felt their effort was valued. I plan to apply that same practical approach to my medical career. I'm on a path to become a neurosurgeon, and I know that in that role, I'll have a position of influence. I intend to use my voice to be an "up-stander" for my patients, to make sure their concerns are heard and that they are treated as whole people, not just a set of symptoms. This means taking the extra minute to explain a complex diagnosis in a clear way and advocating for their needs within the complex hospital system. More broadly, as a Black and Mexican-American man in a STEM field, I've often been one of the only people with my background in my classes. I plan to use my voice to help change that. Mentoring younger, underrepresented students who are interested in medicine is a concrete way I can help build a more inclusive community in my field. A more diverse group of doctors brings a wider range of perspectives and experiences, which ultimately leads to better care for everyone. As they say, even seemingly small or shallow roots, can still bear sweet fruit.

My name is Aden Cisneros, a first-generation student at Creighton University. Most days, you can find me riding my bike around campus. It's faster than walking, and the quiet motion gives me time to think. Lately, I've had a lot on my mind. My plan has always been to pursue a career in medicine, driven by a deep fascination with the brain and its complex systems. That passion is still there, just quieter now, tempered by a new sense of melancholy and the practical realities of a long and uncertain path. My original goal was, and largely still is, neurosurgery. The analytical challenge of understanding the brain and the ability to directly intervene when something goes wrong is incredibly compelling. However, I’ve been weighing that against the more guaranteed career path of nursing. It’s a frank acknowledgment that the road to becoming a surgeon is long, expensive, and not a sure thing, especially without a guaranteed internship or family resources to fall back on. This uncertainty, coupled with recent bouts of depression and some thoughts I know I need to manage, has made me question my trajectory. It's a difficult thing to admit your passion has waned, even slightly, but I believe it's okay to acknowledge a downfall, as long as you aspire to rise up from it. These recent struggles, however, have provided an unplanned, intensive course in empathy. I often observe highly emotional discussions on campus and, while I appear calm, I internally analyze the lack of logical progression. But now, I understand the underlying distress a little better. I know what it feels like to have your own mind feel like an unfamiliar territory. This experience, I believe, will make me a better doctor or nurse. It will allow me to see a patient not just as a set of symptoms to be diagnosed, but as a person navigating a difficult and often frightening situation. My own challenges will help me connect with their vulnerability in a way that academic success alone never could. As a Black student pursuing a medical career, I am acutely aware of the statistics. The fact that only 5% of physicians are Black in a country where we are over 13% of the population is a significant disparity. I plan to use my medical degree to impact this reality directly. My presence in a white coat is a data point that can help change that statistic. I can be a source of trust and understanding for Black patients who often feel unseen by the healthcare system. I can also be a visible example for other young Black students who might not see a place for themselves in STEM. Ultimately, whether my path leads to a scalpel or a stethoscope, my goal remains the same: to make a positive impact through a career in medicine. The challenges I’ve faced, both financial and personal, are not setbacks. They are formative experiences that are shaping me into a more resilient, empathetic, and ultimately, a more human-centered practitioner. This scholarship would provide crucial support, allowing me to continue on this path, navigate my challenges, and work towards becoming a medical professional who can truly make a difference in the lives of others.

My name is Aden Cisneros, and I am a first-generation student and incoming freshman at Creighton University, where I will be majoring in Neuroscience on a pre-medicine track. My approach to challenges is shaped by a need to understand underlying systems, a value that grew from observing the resilience and practical problem-solving of my single mother. This perspective, combined with a disciplined mindset honed through JROTC and competitive swimming, drives my passion for human health. My passion was solidified through hands-on experiences in CNA and EMT training. These roles provided an unfiltered view of human vulnerability and the profound, tangible difference that competent and focused care can make. Seeing the direct link between medical intervention and a patient's well-being confirmed that a career in healthcare, specifically neurosurgery, is the most impactful way for me to apply my skills to address critical human needs. To me, empathy in a healthcare context is not about feeling the same emotions as a patient, but about having the ability to understand their perspective, acknowledge their situation, and use that understanding to provide more effective care. It is an active, cognitive process, not a passive emotional state. It’s the tool that bridges the gap between a clinical diagnosis and the actual human being experiencing the illness. I learned this distinction firsthand as a swim team captain. My initial, purely analytical approach to leadership failed because I was focused only on performance data. It was only when I made a conscious effort to understand each swimmer’s individual challenges and motivations that the team as a whole began to improve. Empathy, in that context, was the key to unlocking potential. In neurosurgery, a field that is incredibly technical and precise, this quality is absolutely critical. A surgeon’s primary focus is on the intricate mechanics of the brain and nervous system, but the patient is not just a disconnected biological puzzle. They are a person, often in a state of extreme fear and vulnerability, surrounded by a family facing the same uncertainty. Empathy is what allows a physician to communicate a complex diagnosis and treatment plan in a way that is clear, compassionate, and respects the patient’s autonomy. It is what drives a surgeon to consider not just the success of an operation, but the patient's long-term quality of life, their goals, and their fears. Without empathy, a surgeon is just a highly skilled technician; with it, they become a true healer. To ensure my work is done through a human-centered lens, I will be deliberate in my approach. First, I will prioritize active listening during every patient interaction. This means giving patients the space to tell their story, understanding that their narrative provides crucial diagnostic context that a scan or a test cannot. Second, I will commit to clear and transparent communication. This involves taking the time to explain complex medical information in understandable terms, ensuring that patients and their families are true partners in the decision-making process. Finally, I will continuously seek to understand the broader context of my patients' lives: their family situation, their financial concerns, and their cultural background. My own experience as a first-generation student from a low-income household has shown me that these external factors are not incidental; they are fundamental to a person’s health and their ability to navigate the healthcare system. By integrating these practices, I can ensure that my focus remains not just on the neurological condition, but on the whole person I am privileged to treat.

My passion for serving my community is grounded in a practical understanding of how critical systems function, especially during a crisis. I've always been driven to figure out how things work, and no system is more complex or important than the network of care that supports a community's health. My interest isn't abstract; it's a direct result of seeing how immediate, skilled intervention can be the single most important factor in a person's life at a given moment. Pursuing a career in healthcare, starting with my EMT certification, is the most logical and effective way for me to apply my skills where they are needed most. My time in the CNA program provided my first real, unfiltered view of patient care. It was a lesson in the realities of human vulnerability and the profound impact that a competent and compassionate caregiver can have. It taught me that helping isn't a vague ideal; it's a series of specific, often difficult, tasks that require focus, discipline, and a deep respect for the person you are assisting. This experience solidified my commitment. It was a necessary step, but it also made me want to understand more, to be able to do more. This is why I am now pursuing my EMT certification—to move from providing comfort and care to providing critical, life-saving intervention. My intention is to create a meaningful and lasting impact that evolves throughout my career. In the short term, as an EMT, my impact will be immediate and direct. It will be in my ability to be a calm, capable presence during an emergency, to make sound decisions under pressure, and to provide the best possible pre-hospital care to every patient. This frontline experience is an invaluable part of my journey. It provides a ground-level perspective on the healthcare system and the real-world challenges patients face long before they ever reach a hospital room or an operating table. In the long term, this foundational experience will inform my work as a neurosurgeon. A lasting impact comes not just from treating patients, but from understanding the entire continuum of their care. My time as an EMT will provide insights into the initial moments of a traumatic brain injury or a stroke, a perspective that many physicians never get to see firsthand. This will make me a more empathetic and effective doctor. Ultimately, my plan is to contribute not only through clinical practice but also through research and mentorship. I want to help advance our understanding of neurological conditions and guide the next generation of students. My career path is a deliberate progression, starting with the essential, hands-on work of a frontline responder. The skills and perspective I gain as an EMT will be the bedrock upon which I build a career dedicated to making a lasting, positive impact on the health and well-being of my community, one patient and one discovery at a time.

My interest in becoming an EMT is a practical and essential step in my long-term plan to pursue a career in medicine. My experiences in early medical training have shown me that emergency response is a complex system that requires not just medical knowledge, but also a calm, methodical approach. I want to understand this system from the ground up and be the person who can bring order and effective care to a chaotic situation. My time in CNA training confirmed my interest in patient care, but I am particularly drawn to the high-stakes, problem-solving nature of emergency medicine, where quick, accurate assessments are critical. David Mann's qualities of compassion, bravery, and selflessness are values I strive to embody through action, not just words. Compassion, for me, was a lesson learned through leadership. As captain of my swim team, I realized that simply pushing for better results wasn't enough. I had to understand my teammates' individual struggles and motivations to truly help them improve. That required listening and adapting, which is a core part of compassionate care. Bravery isn't always about grand gestures; it's also the quiet commitment to show up, take responsibility, and do a difficult job well, even when you're tired or stressed. I see this in the discipline of JROTC and in the commitment to early morning training. Selflessness is demonstrated by putting the team's needs first, whether it's mentoring a junior cadet in JROTC or supporting a struggling teammate in the pool. The impact I hope to make on my community as an EMT is immediate and focused: to be a competent, reliable, and calming presence on what might be the worst day of someone's life. It's about providing the best possible care, making sound decisions under pressure, and treating every individual with respect. This role is the beginning of my journey, not the end. I plan to continue my education, pursuing a degree in neuroscience and eventually attending medical school to become a neurosurgeon. Each step, starting with my work as an EMT, is a building block. I will learn from every call, every patient interaction, and every challenge, constantly refining my skills and deepening my understanding of medicine. This commitment to lifelong learning and service is, I believe, the best way to honor the legacy of dedicated community members like David Mann.

My name is Aden Cisneros, and I am a first-generation student on a direct path to a career in neuroscience and neurosurgery. My identity as a Black and Mexican-American man has fundamentally shaped my journey, providing a unique lens through which I view the world and my place within it. Growing up in a low-income, single-parent household, I learned early on the importance of self-reliance, discipline, and a strong work ethic. Watching my mother navigate countless challenges instilled in me a quiet determination to build a different future, one grounded in stability and the ability to make a tangible, positive impact. My passion for neuroscience stems from an innate curiosity about complex systems. In my STEM classes, particularly AP Biology and Chemistry, I was often one of the few Black students. This experience wasn't isolating; rather, it fueled a resolve to excel and demonstrate that a passion for science is not defined by one's background. I am driven by the desire to understand the most complex system of all: the human brain. It is the operating system of our experiences, and the prospect of understanding its mechanisms, and how to intervene when they fail, is the most compelling challenge I can imagine. My leadership and service experiences have been about translating this drive into practical action. In JROTC, as a Non-Commissioned Officer, I was responsible for mentoring and training junior cadets, many of whom came from backgrounds similar to my own. My focus was on creating a structured, supportive environment where discipline and teamwork could thrive. Similarly, as swim team captain, I learned that effective leadership required moving beyond a purely analytical approach to one that included empathy and understanding individual motivations. It was about building a cohesive team where every member felt valued and empowered to improve. These roles taught me that service isn't just about volunteering; it's about actively contributing to the development and well-being of the people around you. The pre-med and neuroscience degree I am pursuing at Creighton University is the essential next step in achieving my goals. It will provide the rigorous scientific foundation and research opportunities necessary for a career in neurosurgery. This program is not just a means to a degree; it is the toolkit I need to build a future where I can make a lasting impact. My plan is to use my education to contribute in three key ways. First, through direct clinical practice, I will apply surgical skills to treat patients with neurological conditions. Second, I will engage in research, working to understand the root causes of diseases that disproportionately affect our communities. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I will use my position to create a more inclusive pipeline in STEM. I understand the importance of representation because I have often been the only one in the room. I plan to actively mentor Black students and other underrepresented minorities interested in medicine, sharing my experiences and offering guidance to make their path a little clearer. My impact will be measured not just by my own success, but by how effectively I can support and uplift others, ensuring that the next generation of Black scientists and doctors has the encouragement and resources they need to thrive.

My reason for wanting to become a medical doctor is both practical and deeply personal. I am driven by a fascination with the brain as a complex system and the desire to apply a methodical, problem-solving approach to neurological conditions. However, this goal is also shaped by the understanding that a career in medicine is not just an intellectual pursuit, but a path to stability and a means to make a tangible, positive impact. The story of Emanuel "Manny" Weiner, who had to abandon his pre-med path due to financial and other factors, resonates with me on a fundamental level. It highlights a known risk, a critical variable that can derail even the most dedicated person. The primary obstacle in my own path has been financial instability. Growing up in a low-income, single-parent household meant that financial decisions were a constant, quiet pressure. My mother worked incredibly hard to provide for us, and her resilience was a powerful lesson, but there was never a safety net. This reality has made the long, expensive road of medical education seem particularly daunting. It’s not a lack of ambition or a fear of the academic rigor that has been my main concern, but the practical question of how to afford the journey. Being a first-generation student compounds this. Without a family member who has navigated the complex, multi-year process of applying to undergraduate programs, medical school, and residency, every step has required independent research and a degree of trial and error. There is no inherited road map. I believe these difficulties will be a significant asset in my future practice. My firsthand experience with financial limitations will make me a physician who is acutely aware that a treatment plan's feasibility extends beyond its medical efficacy. I will understand that for many patients, a prescription, a recommended therapy, or a follow-up appointment is not just a medical directive, but also a financial calculation that can cause significant stress. This perspective will allow me to work with patients to find solutions that are not only effective but also realistic for their circumstances. Furthermore, navigating this path alone has taught me the importance of clear, accessible information. I’ve had to learn how to break down complex application processes and financial aid forms by myself. I plan to apply that same skill to my interactions with patients, taking the time to explain complex medical information in a way that is understandable and empowers them to be active participants in their own care. The self-reliance I’ve developed from these circumstances is, I believe, a prerequisite for the immense pressures of a surgical residency and career. This scholarship, in memory of Manny Weiner, represents more than just financial aid. It is an opportunity to ensure that financial barriers do not prevent another dedicated student from reaching their goal of becoming a physician.

My name is Aden Cisneros, and I am driven by a practical interest in understanding and solving complex problems. My experiences as a first-generation student have shown me that the most effective way to create change is through the acquisition and application of specific, high-level skills. This understanding has guided my academic path, my extracurricular choices, and my decision to pursue a career in neurosurgery. My goal is to work directly with the most complex system I know of, the human brain, and to use that knowledge to make a tangible difference. Through a degree in neuroscience and a career in medicine, I see three clear ways to make a positive difference. The first is through direct clinical care. My time in CNA and EMT training has given me a real look at patient care, and it solidified my desire to be on the front lines, using surgical skills to treat neurological conditions and directly improve someone's quality of life. Second, I want to be involved in research. Treating one patient is important, but understanding the root cause of a disease can help thousands. Watching my grandfather’s personality and memories fade because of dementia showed me that we need better solutions, not just ways to manage the decline. Contributing to research is a necessary part of finding those solutions. The third way I plan to make an impact is through mentorship. The path to a career in medicine can be confusing, especially if you're the first in your family to try it. I’ve had to figure out a lot on my own. I want to use my experience to help guide other students, especially those from backgrounds like mine, to make their journey a little clearer and more manageable. Right now, my impact is on a more local level. As a Non-Commissioned Officer in JROTC, I spend a lot of my time mentoring junior cadets, helping them with everything from drill to personal discipline. As captain of the swim team, I’ve learned that leadership is often just about creating an environment where everyone feels like they can contribute and improve. These roles are about more than just a title; they are my way of addressing the social need for positive guidance and community for young people. I also volunteer at the YMCA when I can, contributing to a place that provides valuable resources for my community. My ambition isn’t just to have a specific career; it’s to build a set of skills that can be applied to difficult and important problems. My drive comes from what I've seen and a commitment to do something about it. This scholarship would be a practical and crucial part of that plan, allowing me to focus completely on the demanding work ahead so I can be as prepared as possible to make a meaningful difference.

My grandfather taught me to play chess. He was a retired military logistics officer, and his mind was a place of order and strategy. Every move he made on the board had a clear purpose. He taught me to think ahead, to see the consequences of every choice, and I always admired the structured way he saw the world. That sharp, reliable mind was, for a long time, the person I knew him to be. The first signs that something was changing were small things that just didn't compute. One afternoon, he tried to move his knight in a straight line, like a rook. I corrected him, thinking he was just distracted. Then he would ask me about my swim practice, and five minutes after I had answered, he would ask the exact same question again. My initial reaction was a quiet, internal frustration. I thought he simply wasn't paying attention. I would just repeat myself, maybe a little louder, assuming that would solve the error. The real turning point for me was watching his frustration begin to mirror my own. I saw the look in his eyes when he couldn't find a simple word he had used his entire life. It was a flicker of panic, a confusion that he couldn't logically solve. That’s when it truly hit me. This wasn't a choice or a momentary lapse. The ordered mind I had respected so much was being systematically broken down by dementia. It was a slow, painful process of erasure, and there was nothing I could say or do to fix it from the outside. That experience fundamentally changed my interest in the brain. It stopped being a purely academic fascination and became something urgent and deeply personal. You cannot debate with failing neurons. You cannot apply simple logic to a biological cascade you do not fully understand. It became clear that the only effective way to confront a disease like dementia or Alzheimer's is to understand the system itself on a fundamental level. We have to learn precisely how and why it fails if we ever hope to intervene. The story of Henry Respert and his family’s journey with this disease highlights the same reality. It shows how these conditions impact everyone they touch, creating a pressing need for dedicated work and research. My goal to become a neurosurgeon is a direct result of my experience. I want to be one of the people who works on this problem from the inside. I want to understand the 'how' and 'why' of these conditions so I can contribute to developing effective treatments. This scholarship is more than just financial support for my tuition. It represents a direct investment in preparing someone to take on this specific, important fight, a fight I am now personally committed to.

For me, wanting to be a first-generation, Mexican-American college graduate isn’t about some grand pronouncement; it’s a pretty straightforward conclusion I’ve drawn from what I’ve seen and lived. My mom came here from Mexico when she was eighteen, leaving behind a lot of hardship from her own parents. She was on her own for much of her life, raising me as a single parent. That kind of resilience, watching her work tirelessly, just to make ends meet, sticks with you. It makes you see education not as just another option, but as the most practical way to change your circumstances and build something different. My family life has always been… a bit unconventional. I never knew my biological dad; he left before I was born. Sometimes I wonder what he was like, what I might have missed out on, but it's more a passing thought than anything else. My stepdad, he’s from Cuba, drives a truck. He’s a man of few words, mostly gruff, and communication between us isn't always easy. Honestly, it’s often pretty tense. Those experiences taught me to be observant, to figure things out on my own, and to rely on myself. You learn to navigate things quietly. This all feeds directly into why I’m set on neuroscience, and specifically neurosurgery. It’s an incredibly complex field, and that complexity is what draws me in, the challenge of understanding how the brain works, how it can go wrong, and how we might be able to fix it. But it's also deeply personal. Seeing people struggle, seeing the impact of neurological issues, it creates a strong desire to develop skills that can actually help. My Mexican-American background, growing up bilingual and bicultural, feels like an asset here. It gives me a different lens, a way to understand and connect with patients from all walks of life, which is essential for good medical care. When I read about José Melendez, the father this scholarship honors, it connected. His determination to see all eleven of his children through college, despite his own limited education, is a powerful story. It’s not about sentiment; it's about a clear understanding of what education can provide, a legacy of opportunity. It echoes the quiet, unwavering strength I saw in my own mother. So, my passion isn’t the loud, declarative kind. It’s a steady, focused drive. It comes from seeing hardship and understanding that dedicated effort, applied intelligently, is the best way to create change. Becoming a first-generation, Mexican-American college graduate, and then a neurosurgeon, is the most logical and impactful path I see to honor the sacrifices made for me and to build a different kind of future, one where I can make a tangible contribution.